


Breakdown in Communication

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [13]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Tahan is a genuine grade a fucking idiot with a heart that's bigger than his brain, Teamwork makes the dream work, Unrequited Love, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: The squad misplaces their combat medic, and of course he picks up a stray.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan/Alessio Rossi
Series: Tender Mercies [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175





	Breakdown in Communication

March, 2011 -- [CLASSIFIED], Libya

Their team of six is significantly expanded by UN-affiliated forces-- Rana and Rospo are on overwatch, sitting on the roof of one of the tallest buildings still standing, watching the soldiers load evacuees into trucks through their scopes and keeping lone insurgents off their backs. The rest of them sweep through alleys in a grid, operating seamlessly as a fireteam. The plan is simple enough: distract, deflect, disappear. Repeat. 

The plan is going well, until it isn’t.

It’s unclear, exactly, what happens. One moment they’re running the opposition through a gauntlet, controlling the numbers, the streets, and the next it seems like the world is on fire. The whole city smells like burning rubber and cement dust, enough that it tickles his throat even with the mask on. He thinks it starts when the evac takes longer than planned. That makes sense. The longer they spend in the city, the more likely it is that the insurgents figure out their plan. He’s not sure what the disconnect is-- perhaps the civilians aren’t aware of the urgency. Perhaps one of the humvees gets a flat tire. It doesn’t matter, really. Mammone, Brutto, Tombarolo and him are almost halfway across the damn city when the shit hits the fan. There’s so much yelling on the radio, reports of civilian casualties, blocked exits. They’re running back already by the time Rossi manages to get into contact with Rana with the satellite phone.

An RPG took out the last troop transport. No way home, not until they could gather and clear the area, find a safe spot for a helicopter to land. Their forces had dwindled to just the six of their special forces, and six of the remaining UN-affiliated troops. Four civilians. They’d all be able to fit on one, and one was all they would get. Night starts to fall. The radio chatter dies down. Brutto takes a wrong fucking turn and leads them in the wrong direction for about an hour, and Rossi has to drag them back on course. Rospo picks out a rendezvous point and radios that position into the rest of them-- they have to turn around. 

A wild hail of bullets splits the team in half, Tombarolo shoving him around a corner and taking off down the street behind Mammone, drawing some of the fire. Rossi sees red for the next thirty minutes, seething in silence as he and Brutto traverse the last stretch of broken streets before they make it to the relative safety of the rendezvous, five out of the six regular forces there: Rana, Rospo, Mammone, Brutto, himself, and -- 

No Tombarolo. 

Rana looks a little wide around the eyes when he calls out in greeting, and Mammone’s jaw is so tight that his lips are only a thin, white line. Rossi swears he’s not going to bite anyone’s head off, but his shoulders are square and his chin is held high, his voice carrying just the faintest edge when he asks, “You two get separated?” 

Mammone gives him an unimpressed look. The pair of them-- Tombarolo and Mammone-- came up through the training together, he’s just as worried as Rossi. “Fucker said he was doubling back to look for you two when we got close-- probably lost.” 

Both of them know there’s no way in hell Tombarolo is lost, so he makes himself take a deep breath and stalks over to the NCO in charge of the other squad. Sergeant… Malone, by the name tape, is of middling height and age, face weathered but clean shaven, and the baby blue bandana marking him as a UN attache washes him out until he looks like a corpse. The private next to him starts to salute him on approach, but he slaps his arm down and hisses something about saluting an officer in enemy territory. Rossi pulls down his mask and gives him his smoothest, calmest smile, though he knows the corners of his eyes are tight enough that it might not be convincing. “You’re missing one as well?”

“Private Rahal, sir,” the man replies tersely. Rossi can tell he’s uncomfortable being surrounded by a black ops unit, so he does his best to settle the tight line of his shoulders into something approaching friendly-- an action the other four don’t bother to take, as they wordlessly scatter to keep an eye on the roads. 

“Have you put that out over the radio?” 

The man nods, and exchanges a glance with another soldier, this one tall, dark and handsome. “He hasn’t responded, but your man has. Last heard from him five minutes ago, said he’d try to check in every hour until he arrives.” 

Something that had knotted in his chest loosens, and this time when he thanks the sergeant his smile is genuine, before he pulls his mask back over his nose. The night grows darker. An hour passes. He sits by the radio until it buzzes to life, at around midnight. Tombarolo’s voice is familiar, and despite his apparent death wish, he seems to be in good spirits when he calls out, “Red Party Two-One, this is Tombarolo, checking in. Do you copy?” 

Rossi presses the button down so quickly he almost isn’t done speaking, his voice hoarse when he responds, “You fucking idiot.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence, where Rossi can only assume the bastard is laughing at him, before he calls back in. “Oh good, you did make it. I was a little afraid you and Brutto would kill and eat each other after being lost for an hour.” 

It’s so normal, and so… _Bettino_ , that he can’t help but let his shoulders loosen with a long sigh. His voice has a creeping fond quality to it, something so dangerous that it leaves Rospo side-eyeing him for a moment, when he murmurs, “You’re not that lucky, you tramp. Give me a sitrep.” 

The radio crackles for a moment, and Tombarolo almost sounds breathless when his answer comes through. “Too many of them on the main roads now, I’ve had to keep to the side streets. Trying to avoid the lights, so it’s taking a lot longer than I’d like, but I’ll be there by takeoff. Is everyone there, or is the kid still missing?” 

He sighs. No calls from the private, and he hadn’t shown. The Sergeant is acting like he’s dead already-- apparently he’s nineteen, and fresh, so the chances aren’t looking good. Tall, dark and handsome seems broken up, but he’s keeping his head well. He can’t tell him that. “No sign of the private.” 

A long, loaded silence, and Tombarolo almost sounds subdued when he responds, “Any injuries?”

Rossi turns to look out over the assembled crew, and then answers, “Nothing serious. Rana looks like he fell face first into a brick wall, but honestly? It looks like an improvement.” The subject’s middle finger raises up behind his back, and a brief smile splits his face, but the man doesn’t turn his gaze from the road, so Rossi turns back to the radio in his hands. “Other than that, nothing to report.” 

“If I wanted to know you were into blood, I would have asked.” Amusement is plain in his voice, even crackling through the speakers. “I’m going to keep going. Radio silence. Call you in an hour.” 

Call you, he’d said. Call you. An hour is an agonizing amount of time to wait. He answers in the affirmative anyway, and switches out with Mammone to stand guard. Hours pass. Tombarolo checks in as promised, every hour, almost on the hour, until he doesn’t. He misses the 0200 check in, and Rossi can’t help the nausea and dread that creep in under his breastbone and seem to break apart every rib he has. Each minute that passes turns him further to stone it seems, until Rospo drags him with a firm hand to sit behind a low wall, and thrusts a canteen of lukewarm water into his hands to sip on. It’s nearing 0300 when the radio finally crackles to life once more, and the only thing that keeps him from jumping to his feet is Rospo’s heavy palm on his shoulder.

Tombarolo’s words roll out of the speakers in a quiet rush. 

“Red Party Two-One, this is Tombarolo checking in. Do you copy?” When Rospo replies in the affirmative in that gruff, even tone of his, he continues, “Found the kid, had to kill two of his captors. He’s injured, but we’re close by-- two or so city blocks.” Rossi grinds his teeth so harshly that he thinks they might fall out of his head, and waits for him to continue. “We’ll be coming in from the East, bearing eighty degrees, up the side streets until we can’t sneak past anymore. ETA is going to be about an hour or so. I’m going to have to carry him, we’ll make it by 0500.” 

Rospo buries his face in his hand with a long sigh, and then scrubs at his beard. 0500 is takeoff-- it’s nearing 0400 now. Not a whole lot of room for error, and a lot of shit can happen in two city blocks, even if you aren’t carrying another grown man as dead weight. But they don’t exactly have the manpower to spare to go and meet him. If something were to happen to the rescuing party, that’s just another casualty, or two, or five that their resident combat medic has to worry about. And the smaller the group traveling, the less likely they are to get spotted-- especially with the great and crafty Tombarolo, fleet of foot and dumb of ass, taking the lead. 

These are things he has to tell himself, to keep from picking up his rifle and darting off into the night alone. Neither him nor Rospo bother trying to convince him to leave the kid behind, if he’s too injured to walk. It’s a waste of breath. Rospo simply answers him with a gruff, “you’d better.”

Rossi can’t help but lean forward to speak next, his voice rushed as he leans over Rospo’s shoulder. “The helicopter won’t be able to wait if you’re not,” the addendum thankfully doesn’t shake, but it tells him what he needs to know: with RPGs in the area, they’re going to be lucky to make it at all, and there will be no dicking around come dawn.

“We’ll be there,” he says. His voice is so warm-- Rossi wants to strangle him for having the audacity to sound reassuring right now. “See you then.” 

They sign off, and he stalks over to watch the Eastern road, his hands stock still on the grip of his rifle. Rana crouches in the dirt next to him with his rifle resting across his knees for the next hour or so. No gunfire rings out, but it hadn’t before, and Tombarolo had said he’d killed two insurgents two blocks from them. His chest is tight, and his heart is in his throat, and he watches the roads until his eyes burn from how dry they are, until-- there, a flash of movement. Rana is already looking down the scope by the time he manages to sit up, and when the man breathes a sigh of relief, Rossi lets his own shoulders relax, finally. 

Tombarolo stumbles into camp with twenty minutes to spare, soaked with blood and sweat and a little wild around the eyes, riding all that adrenaline to its inevitable crash. The young man he settles carefully against the wall is grey-skinned and scarcely breathing, so still that Rossi almost thinks him dead, until his pale gaze flicks to him and settles there, half lidded and confused. For one bitter, bitter moment, he lets himself hate the kid, neatly choking on the rage, and the possibility that the last time he might have seen Bettino Tahan had been watching his back disappear around a corner while he cursed at him. He hardens his heart to flint, staring off into the middle distance because he can’t look at the stranger or his friend, and he stays that way until Bettino settles two fingers against his elbow, minutes, hours, years later. His gaze is soft, concerned. The ends of his sleeves, and his shoulder are both stained with blood, as is the front of his shirt. All the anger evaporates with a single, weary sigh.

“None of it is mine,” he says, like that makes it any better. Like Rossi hasn’t seen him countless times when it is his own blood.

“I know.” 

“Are you hurt?” He asks. Not _are you alright_ , but _are you **hurt?**_ He wonders if he even knows he’s playing that word game, or if it’s just instinct driven, if he knows the truth of the first, so he jumps straight to the second.

“Only my pride. You pushed me pretty hard.”

A bark of that warm laughter, and he sways closer to him, until their shoulders brush. Tahan sounds unbearably sure of himself when he replies, “No I didn’t.”

No, he didn’t. He fell anyway.


End file.
